Page 63 of A Wallflower for the Disguised Earl

The game was over. And she had lost absolutely everything.

Chapter 23

The bright yellow door of Phoebe Cavendish’s townhouse looked entirely ridiculous on a morning as bleak as this.

Edmund stood on the top step, the damp London chill cutting through his dark wool coat, and stared at the painted wood. He had spent the entire carriage ride from Mayfair practicing what he would say. He had composed apologies, rationalizations, and desperate pleas. None of them seemed adequate now that he was actually here, standing in the aftermath of the pamphlet that had shattered the city.

He lifted his hand and struck the heavy brass knocker against the plate. The sound echoed down the quiet street.

He waited. His heart hammered an unforgiving rhythm against his ribs.

The lock turned with a sharp click. The door swung inward, but it was not the butler who stood in the entryway.

Phoebe Cavendish blocked the threshold. She wore a severe day dress of dark slate, her arms crossed firmly over her chest. She did not open the door wide enough to invite him in, nor did she offer a greeting. She simply looked at him, her sharp eyes stripping away his title, his wealth, and his desperate intentions, leaving only the architect of her niece’s ruin.

“Mrs. Cavendish,” Edmund said, his voice rough. He pulled his top hat from his head, gripping the brim until his knuckles turned white.

“My lord,” Phoebe replied. The title sounded like a curse in her mouth.

“I need to see her.”

“No.” The word was absolute. It was a physical barrier, harder than the oak door she was holding.

Edmund stepped closer, closing the distance, his height and broad shoulders offering no advantage against the older woman’s iron will. “Please. I am begging you. I need five minutes. She has to hear the truth from me, not from the guttersnipes printing broadsheets.”

“She has already read the broadsheets,” Phoebe stated, her voice flat and completely devoid of sympathy. “She read them at breakfast. And she will not see you. She will not see anyone, least of all you, without her father present in the room.”

Edmund flinched. The mention of Sir Gerald was a strike, a reminder of the colossal breach of trust he had committed. “Her father is in the country. It will take days for him to arrive. I cannot leave her to sit in the dark and think that everything between us was a lie. You cannot ask me to do that.”

“I am not asking you to do anything,” Phoebe countered. “I am telling you that you are not crossing this threshold. You have done enough.”

“I love her.”

“Your love is remarkably destructive,” Phoebe noted drily. “It looks exactly like a trap.”

Edmund clenched his jaw. The agonizing truth of her words burned his throat. He had trapped Corinna. He had pulled her into a game she didn’t know she was playing, and now she was paying the price for his cowardice. He looked past Phoebe’s shoulder, staring down the long, shadowed hallway of the townhouse, desperately hoping for a glimpse of navy muslin or the sound of a soft footstep on the stairs.

The hallway remained empty.

Edmund looked back at Phoebe. The fight drained completely out of his shoulders. The exhaustion of the last two days hit him with the force of a physical blow. He leaned against the doorframe, stripping away every ounce of aristocratic pride he possessed.

“Then pass her a message,” Edmund said. His voice was a harsh, broken whisper. “If you will not let me see her, you must tell her this for me.”

Phoebe did not soften, but she did not shut the door. She waited.

“Tell her,” Edmund began, his chest aching so fiercely he could barely draw a breath, “that everything I said in the hallway was true. Every word. Tell her that none of it was a performance.”

Phoebe studied his face for a long moment. She searched his bloodshot blue eyes, cataloging the dark circles beneath them, the rigid tension in his jaw, and the naked desperation in his expression. She was an artist. She knew how to read the truth in a face.

“I will consider it,” Phoebe finally said.

She did not wait for his thanks; she simply stepped back and closed the yellow door.

Edmund stood on the step for a long time, staring at the brass knocker, listening to the bolt slide into place. The finality of the sound echoed in his ears. He turned slowly, putting his hat back on his head, and walked down the stone steps to the pavement.

Julian was waiting across the street, leaning casually against the black iron railings of a small park square.

He was not wearing the earl’s fine tailoring today. He wore his own clothes, a slightly worn dark coat and a plain cravat. He looked like Mr. Marsh, the secretary, but the easy, careless charm that usually accompanied his true identity was completely absent. Julian pushed off the railing as Edmund approached, falling into step beside him without a word.